Shipping Up To Boston: The Trevor Project
by Googlemouth
Summary: Boston Homicide detectives come together to strengthen LGBT youth and tell them It Gets Better. Yes, it's a thinly veiled PSA. Now go film YOUR Trevor Project video for Youtube! Co-authored by ChapstickLez.
1. Introduction

'**Shipping Up To Boston, Part 0: The Trevor Project**

_**Rizzoli & Isles**_** belongs to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, TNT, and the host of writers, producers, cast, and crew who create the show we love to watch. We are not any of those people.**

**We came up with the idea for this one evening, wishing that **_**Rizzoli & Isles**_** would tackle this subject in their own impressively gay, eye-sex way. Since they haven't so far, we decided to roll up our plaid flannel sleeves (or in Googlemouth's case, her French-cuff sleeves) and tackle it ourselves.**

**The title is taken directly from The Trevor Project, which we personally feel is important. If you or someone you know is being bullied, especially for being LGBT or being perceived as such, please stand up for them. Look into itgetsbetter[DOT]com and talk to someone. You're not alone, and we love you just the way you are.**

**Co-written by ChapstickLez and Googlemouth. You can find us on Twitter as chapsticklez and Googlemouth.**

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE:<strong>** This is mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez, my co-author for this fic, which is actually the epilogue of another series that she and I are writing together. In a few days, **_**she**_** will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (fan fiction DOT net SLASH u SLASH 2625035 SLASH ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**

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><p><strong>We also want to say (in paraphrase of AdmHawthorne's excellent words at the beginning of the fic "Darkness," which she co-wrote with Googlemouth) that there's no shame in asking for help, and it's not a sign of weakness to admit you need it. It takes strength. If you don't feel you have it, there are people here who will happily, gladly offer up their strength for you to use as your own. No thought of suicide should ever be ignored. You matter. Believe it.<strong>

**1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK)**

**1-800-784-2433 (1-800-SUICIDE)**

**US National Suicide Prevention Lifeline**

**For the hearing impaired in the US:**

**1-800-799-4TTY (4889)**

**For lines by US state, please check Suicidehotlines DOT com**

**Save DOT org**

**Suicidepreventionlifeline DOT org**

**And for LGBT concerns especially, have a look at TheTrevorProject DOT com (in case we didn't say it quite often enough so far).**

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><p><strong>Now, on with the fic!<strong>


	2. Korsak

_**Chapter 1: Korsak**_

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><p>The video opened onto a black screen which faded swiftly into an office, something like what one would see on a cop show somewhere on the East Coast of the US: walls with construction and wear indicating that they must be at least a hundred years old, coupled with furniture that might have been impressively sparkly and cool ten years ago or so, when they were bought. In the main foreground of the video was a bear of a man, built beefy, with salt-and-pepper hair mostly turning to salt. He wore a goatee that was scarcely darker than the hair on his head, and a brown suit that looked fairly new, yet not of the current style. His tie was of good quality, but old, probably from the eighties.<p>

"You sure it's on?" asked the man, consulting someone off camera who grunted in the affirmative and reminded him in a vaguely female-sounding, husky voice to look at the camera, not his own ugly mug. He made a face back at the person, then obediently turned towards the camera, serious once more.

The man's voice was a rumbling baritone, as grizzled as his demeanor and visage. "My name's Vince Korsak. I'm a homicide detective in Boston. A couple weeks ago I had to tell five sets of parents that their kids died. Normally that's a good day for me, but the thing is, these kids..." A discreet hand slipped forward, holding a box of tissues. Korsak waved it away, then beckoned it back and took a handful, just in case.

"They were just kids," he said, clearing his throat again. It might be perfectly fine for a man to cry, but he needed to get his message out first. "Teenagers. _Good_ kids. Active in sports, or youth groups, doing stuff with their lives. Doing okay in school. Had friends. Parents loved them. But they were being bullied, catching crap from other kids and from... Never mind, doesn't matter who. An adult they all knew. And those people, those bullies, tore those kids down. Made them feel less than human, like they didn't deserve to walk this earth."

Anger laced through the meaty man's voice, causing his large right hand to clench into a fist, wadding up the tissues held therein. "Some of those boys had friends they could talk to, but one friend isn't enough. They didn't feel safe in school, and they were scared to death - I'm not trying to be funny here, because it's not funny - they were scared as hell to tell their parents what they were going through. Thought their folks wouldn't support them. Maybe they'd get kicked out of their own homes and have to live on the streets, or maybe get shipped off to military school or Bible school or some sort of camp where they'd try to make them be not gay."

The hurt in the man's voice was palpable, and he had to take a moment to blow his nose before continuing. "I'm straight, if that matters to anybody. I've got a kid myself. I have no idea if he's gay, and you know something? I don't give a rat's ass if he is. If my kid said he was gay, I'd tell him, Josh, you're gonna get a lot of crap out there. But not here, never in my house. Never from me. Then I'd apologize for screwing him up. 'Course I do that now anyway. The apologizing. I screwed him up. That's what parents do, though. We screw kids up. We don't mean to, most of us, but we're mostly just a whole bunch of idiots makin' babies. Most people are caused by accidents, like they say, and so you get a lot of parents that just aren't ready for all the stuff you have to deal with as a dad or a mom. But that doesn't mean we won't love you if you come to us and tell us you're gay, or anything else. It just means we don't think big enough to figure out all the ways you might get hurt and come up with all the ways to keep it from happening. We're stupid, see?"

"Jesus, Korsak, you're terrible at this."

"Point is," Korsak replied, sparing a brief glare at the owner of the off-screen voice, "if you talk to a parent and they don't like what you tell 'em, you've got resources. Go look them up at thetrevorproject DOT com. If you tell a friend, or a priest, or a teacher, or anybody else and they don't like it, though, just let that person go. Yeah, it sucks, but there's a dozen more people out there that _will_ help you. A dozen, a hundred, a million. Once you weed out the people in your life that can't figure out how to be a friend to you, you'll be left with the people that do know how. Keep those people around, because they're you're real friends. Like the great man said, _Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."_

The off-screen voice came again. "That was great, Vince. Thanks." Then the screen went blank.

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


	3. Frost

_**Chapter 3: Frost**_

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><p>"My name is Barry Frost," said the babyfaced man who sat in the video hot seat now. His voice was smooth, and his demeanor subdued. "My father is in the United States Navy. I am a detective with Boston Police Department. I am a heterosexual man, and I feel very strongly about supporting full, equal, human rights for all, regardless of orientation or affiliation or identity or whatever else you want to call it. I'm proud to say I was one of those who voted to stop preventing same-sex marriages in Massachusetts."<p>

His slender, delicate hands (for a man) fiddled with a pencil holder he picked up from the desk, giving him something with which to fidget. "Did I say I was a homicide detective?" he asked; the gruff voice of Korsak, from a previous video, informed him that he had. "Right. Anyway, I've seen far too many ways that people kill each other already, and you know, I've only been in Homicide for a couple of years. They stab, poison, shoot, hang, smother, strangle," he ticked off a finger with each method of death. "I mean, the ways people will kill each other know no limits. Then there are all the other ways people can die, like diseases, injuries, old age, et cetera." He pronounced it as most Americans did, _ex-setra._ "And I just have to believe that with all that out in the world, nobody should actually try to help it along, you know? Life is too damned short already."

The man glanced slightly away from the camera lens, probably at his own image in the preview screen. "And sometimes life is both short and hard. Real hard. I know. There are jerks everywhere, bullies everywhere. People will always say something to try to cut you down. But it gets better. The people that seem like they're so important when you're in junior high and high school start to just seem so small once you're in college or out in the world. They have their time in your life, but it ends. And everything about you that's making you uncool right now will make you the coolest guy or girl anybody knows later on."

Frost sighed, put down the pencil holder, and looked back up at the screen with soulful brown eyes. "But it can't get better if you take your life right now. If you do that, your last days on earth will have been sad, scary, and torturous. But if you choose to live, to work on all the things that are hard for you right now and turn them around, then your days will get so much better. You're going to find things to do that are important to you. Write a song, design a building, solve a problem that science has been struggling with, make a movie, construct a bridge, perform a surgery, raise a kid, teach a class. Do something you love to do. Find people who love doing that thing, and do it with them. Find things in common.

"And find more people who share this, too," he went on. "Believe me, they're out there. You aren't the only person who's dealing with this, and you're not the only one who finds it difficult to handle the way other people deal with this information about you. But that's all it is. It's just information. It's just part of you, like your skin and eye color, whether you bat right-handed or write left-handed, whether you can sing well or you're bad with math. It's just a thing, you know? And there are people out there who have this thing in common with you, and there are people who don't but who still care about you and want you to get to live the life that makes you happy. It gets better. It gets better. But only if you stick around to see it happen. You know, my partner - my work partner - she loves Dr. Seuss, and she's got this thing of his that she says. _Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind._ That's pretty good to close with, right?"

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


	4. Jane

_**Chapter 2: Jane**_

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><p>"I'm Jane Rizzoli," said the woman who now sat in the chair previously held by the man who now became apparent as her co-worker. Also, hers had apparently been the off-screen voice in Korsak's video, for those who were watching the latest spate of uploads in a series. "I'm a detective. Homicide detective. And yeah, I've heard exactly what you're thinking right now. <em>She's a cop. She's a detective. She's gaaaay!"<em> The woman waved her hands around, halfheartedly simulating panic. "Yeah, we've all heard the stereotypes about women in law enforcement. You know, that's fine. I don't care what you think, because it doesn't matter. I'm not just bluffing or trying to front. It really _doesn't _matter what anybody else thinks, so go ahead, think whatever makes you happy about me, okay?"

She stopped for a moment to think about how to word what she would say next. "Look. Gay, straight, bi, trans, pan, whatever you are, I give a damn about you. I really do, and I am far from the only one. We're out here, caring, even if you don't know us yet, so don't let the bastards get you down." Jane holds her hands up for the viewers. "See that? A seriously f- _messed_ up serial killer did that to me. And I'm still here, still on the job. You can make it through the bullying like I made it through that. Don't let them stop you from being the great person you were born to be."

A melodious female voice off camera murmured as Jane paused, momentarily spooked, "I'm so proud of you." Apparently that was all Jane needed. She went on.

"Tell the truth to yourself, and then tell the truth to one other person," said Jane, leaning forward with a new intensity in her scratchy, rough voice. "Find somebody you trust to talk to. A lot of people you trust. If you don't have any of those, go out and find new people to trust. Find an LGBT center in your area, or Google some online and call them. Look into the Trevor Project. Look at some more of these videos up on Youtube DOT com; they'll help. But most of all, just tell the truth and keep telling it, because it's yours. Get serious about your truth. Get passionate about it, because _Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not_. That's, um..."

The lanky woman actually colored, cheeks growing pinker as she admitted, "That isn't something I made up. My coworker... partner... Look, we're both cops... _Vince_ teases me about it because he knows I put that as my yearbook quote from high school It's by Dr. Seuss. Hey, the man may have been a walking acid trip, but sometimes he really came out with some good stuff, right? He's right about this. Probably the best thing he ever said. _Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."_

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


	5. Angela

_**Chapter 4: Angela**_

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><p>Sitting down in the chair, the maternal woman in a modest, plain, shirt looked around. "Where do I look?"<p>

"Right there, Ma, at the green light." The second voice was the same as from an earlier video.

Her eyes focused on the light. "Okay. Hello. I'm Angela Rizzoli. I'm not gay," she said, almost as an afterthought. "I'm a mother, I have three kids. My daughter's a detective, she's right there. Say hi, Janie."

"Don't call me Janie, Ma," growled Jane.

"Right. I'm supposed to be telling you kids something important. Okay, here it is. I love you. All of you. I don't even know you, but I know that you're someone's baby. Someone's little boy or girl, who they watched learn to walk and talk, ride a bike, read a book. And … And anyone who tells you that you're not perfect the way you are doesn't know you yet." She sighed and looked higher than the camera. "I love my kids. They give me grey hair, but I love 'em. They're good kids and nothing they could do would ever change that. So even though you might think your parents will never understand you, and you may be right, remember they'll always love you, because you're their baby. Or I'll hit 'em with a spoon. Remember, like the good book says - the one by Dr. Seuss, the one I used to read to my little girl all the time - _Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."_

Angela nodded at the camera. "Is that okay, Janie?"

"Other than calling me Janie, yeah. That's good. You did great, Ma. I'm proud of you."

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


	6. Frankie

_**Chapter 5: Frankie**_

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><p>"I'm Frankie," said the well-built man on the screen. "I'm a Boston cop. Guess the uniform gives that away, though, right?" Self-consciously he ran a hand over his dark blue uniform blouse, straightened the tie. "My sister's a detective. Dad's a plumber, I think. He ran off to Florida and I think... that isn't the point, sorry. My Ma works at the precinct cafe here, and my brother... yeah, he paints houses. Anyway, I sent my Ma to PFLAG. Parents and Friends of Lesbians And Gays. Not cause I'm gay, though I think my sister - Uh." Frankie looked abashed. "Uh. Oh. Sorry. I shoulda told you first. I think you might be gay. Sorry."<p>

"Don't apologize for that!" said the disembodied voice that had acted as director for four other videos, the voice belonging to a woman who had made her own video in the series. "Nothing wrong with being gay, so it's not an insult."

"I'm apologizing for telling _them_ first."

"Just finish the video, Frankie," the off-screen voice ordered good-naturedly.

Frankie did so. "Yeah. Well, anyway, everybody's probably got somebody they know who's gay, or bi, or all those other things you can be when you're not straight like I am. Well, actually," he mused, taking on-screen time to actively consider it, "I don't know if I'm a hundred percent straight. I mean, I know I like girls, but who's to say there's no guy on the face of the whole earth that I could ever be into, you know? Maybe I could. I don't know. I haven't met a guy like that before, but it could happen. Let's say I'm straight by default right now. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to even say."

He fidgeted a little, plucking a pen from the pencil holder that had so fascinated his fellow cop in an earlier video. "I just mean that anybody tells you they hate queers - sorry, but that's what they'll probably call it, or fags, or some other word that hurts people - has something they hate about themselves, too. They might be gay and fighting it, or they might just have their own bullshi- I mean, their own stuff they should be working through, but they can't, so they go and pick on somebody else. That's not _your_ fault, though. You just gotta ignore them. Their lives are empty. You've got more to you than they've got. Just keep getting up one more time than they can push you down. Keep getting up. It'll get better. _Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."_

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


	7. Maura

_**Chapter 6: Maura**_

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><p>The camera angle had pulled back a bit, and downward, to center a petite woman with brown hair with caramel and honey highlights. She was dressed impeccably in a dress that was very <em>au courant,<em> colorful, tailored to fit her curvaceous figure, and her cosmetic enhancements were just as tastefully effective. "Hello," said the woman in a gentle mezzosoprano voice. "My name is Maura. Unlike most of my coworkers, whose videos you should also view, I'm not a homicide detective; I'm a medical examiner. But I am, like them, passionate about the Trevor Project. Like them, I care very much about you, and I want you to live and grow and get to see all the amazing things that will happen in a future with you in it."

She held up an iPad and started thumbing through pictures. "Look, this is what's happened just over the last thirty years. The Sears Tower is no longer the tallest building in the world. Germany has been reunited. We've found ways for the deaf to use mobile phones; we've also created mobile phones that can be used effectively almost anywhere. Madonna is still making music. This iPad was invented." Her gentle excitement was endearing as she ran through a host of other advances made. "And same-sex marriages, civil unions, and domestic partnerships are recognized, and in some cases performed, in thirteen states plus the District of Columbia. To say nothing of the other countries who have begun permitting same-sex marriages, or recognizing those marriages when performed elsewhere, and those that are currently debating the subject."

The woman set down the iPad and smiled again at the camera, pleased to have been able to cite progress in so many areas. "So many more things are going to happen in the next five, or twenty, or sixty years. I want you to see those things happen. I want you to _make_ them happen. You have so much inside you that the world needs. If you can't quite see that, if you can't quite imagine extending yourself that far, what about just what you can do within your own community? Imagine raising funds to maintain an inner-city playground, helping deliver food to the elderly homebound and the homeless. Imagine becoming a medical professional or firefighter and saving lives.

"Imagine," continued the woman, leaning forward and stretching out her hand on the desktop, as if to touch and hold that of the viewer, "reaching out to just one other person who's having a hard time and showing them that _they're_ not alone. You could save another person's life just by telling them that you care"

The woman, Maura, let that rest there for a moment, underscoring her sincerity with silence, not that it was needed. Everything about her suggested earnestness, but especially her large hazel eyes, piercing through the camera's lens to directly reach the viewer. "I want you to live. I want you to feel hopeful. I want you to understand that it does get better. It's getting better all the time. And I want you to realize that, even if someone tells you that you're wrong or sick for being the person that you were born to be, they aren't right. They don't get to define you or to limit you. You're a wonderful person. Your life can have purpose, meaning, and beauty. It can be filled with friendships and love and laughter, if you can hold on just a little longer. Go out and actively seek those joys, because if you keep looking, you _will_ find them."

The speaker took a deep breath and glanced off camera, a little to the left, as if seeking reassurance. The hoarse female voice that had directed each video maker spoke up, more softly than to the others; this was no hardened cop, nor a mother pushing her buttons. "You're doing good."

"Doing _well,_ Jane." Apparently the camera operator made a face or a gesture, because Maura returned her attention to the lens. "I'm a big fan of telling the truth and not flinching. Someone I care about," Maura said, looking steadily at that same point off camera with a small, warm smile, "is a big fan of Dr. Seuss, the _nom de plume_ of Theodore Seuss Geisel." Her eyes returned to the camera. "Both our sentiments can be admirably expressed in Dr. Seuss's words, which are actually a paraphrase of a statement by Bernard Baruch, who was discussing seating arrangements at the time, and..."

"Maura." The disembodied voice spoke with both fondness and exasperation.

"Right. _Be who you are and say what you feel, because -_ This is the part that Seuss paraphrased_ - those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind._ And if you need someone and can't find anyone you trust, please, _please,_ contact thetrevorproject DOT com. Everyone there has been where you are now, and they've all lived past it. They can help you do the same thing."

* * *

><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


	8. Crowe

_**Chapter 7: Crowe**_

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><p>An attractive man with a round, bald head sat smiling at the camera. He adjusted his tie, the ubiquitous phallic symbol of modern Western dress, and positioned himself to look his best for the camera, slightly turned to display pectoral muscles beneath his well cut but cheaply constructed suit. "My name's not important," he told the camera, "but you can call me Crowe. Everybody does at work."<p>

"That's because it's your name, dumbass," came the rough female voice from behind the camera.

"You want me to do this?" Crowe asked rhetorically. "Then let me do it. Anyway, I'm a homicide detective."

The man had a natural arrogance to his movements; just because he was doing a good thing didn't negate who he was. "You can get through all the shit people are going to give you," he said, not minding his language as the man had in the previous video in the series, "because they just don't know what they're dealing with. Sometimes you have to teach people. Sometimes just lets them go, if they're never going to listen long enough to really learn what a good person you are or anything else about you. It ain't no thang. Just let it roll off. _Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."_

He gave himself a moment to think about what to say next. "Yeah. So I lost a bet at poker and now I have to do this video, or pay up the people I lost to. They think that's why I'm doing this video, but that's not the real reason. I'd have done it anyway if they just asked."

He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I'm doing it because I _hate_ the word nigger. Probably as much as you hate the word fag. See, I know it's hard. You think I've never been called names? Look at my black face. Of course I have. There are places it's not safe to be gay, and there are places it's not safe to be black. People are going to judge the hell out of you, and they might not even realize they're doing it."

Crowe stuck his thumbs under his belt, adjusted it a bit, and then stilled himself again. "Just let it go. The less you listen to the haters, the more you can listen to your own mind. The best revenge against haters is living a good life. You kill yourself, and people that love you will feel bad. You live well, and the people who don't love you, the people who cut you down, will be the ones to feel bad. Doesn't that sound better? Yeah. So that's what I want to say. If you _make_ it better, it _gets_ better. Peace out."

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><p><strong>SPECIAL NOTE: This fic was written mostly a way to draw your attention over to ChapstickLez. In a few days, she will be posting all subsequent parts of this series, which we're writing together, and I want all my readers to quickly run over to her profile (.net~ChapstickLez) and click Author Alert so that you don't miss any of them.**


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